Contagion
by storylover18
Summary: Sherlock wakes up one morning and finds that something is not right. Sorry about the vague description but I don't want to give too much away too soon! Filling a prompt for Prothoe - sick!Sherlock. Friendship only between John and Sherlock. Please R&R!
1. Mind over Matter

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, once again, my fellow readers, writers, and Sherlock lovers! I have for you what will eventually turn into a mutli-chapter story, revolving around a prompt I received from _Prothoe_ but I don't want to give it away in the introduction! You'll just have to read and see what I have up my sleeve … or rather, what Sherlock's come down with! Enjoy =) **

Something was wrong.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what but before he had opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. Something didn't feel right. There was a dull ache behind his left eye and his body felt like it had rusted overnight. Sherlock allowed his eyes to open slowly and he wondered how it was possible for such a small action to prompt so much pain. The light hit his eyes and intensified the headache from an ache to a steady throb. As the headache grew, his stomach worked itself into a knot and Sherlock could feel his muscles contract uncomfortably. Swallowing was a mistake, not because his throat was sore but because it made his stomach twist into an even tighter ball.

Control. He needed to gain control. Clear his mind and get control.

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and spread his arms and legs out. The cool areas between the sheets made a painful shiver rise up his spine but regardless, he closed his eyes and began taking deep breathes, counting to five at every inhale and exhale. Slowly, he could feel his leg muscles relax and he experimentally flexed his toes. Noting the discomfort had lessened slightly, Sherlock continued breathing deeply while he lifted his hands to his scalp, which he began massaging gently. At first, his fingertips had only caused sharp pains to cross his forehead but slowly the throb diminished to an ache, and after a few more minutes, it disappeared all together.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock felt he had enough control over his body to sit up. As he did, he noted that his stomach, while having relaxed, was still unsettled.

Mind over matter. That's all this was, the power of his mind could take care of his stomach with no problems. If he refused to be ill, he wouldn't be. It was as simple as that.

With that mindset, Sherlock forced himself from the comforts of his bed and got dressed. He went into the kitchen, determined to eat something to show his body that it was not in control.

* * *

Somehow, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how, he made it through the day. As days go, it wasn't the most exciting one he'd had but come supper time, he felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go to bed. It had not been easy keeping control throughout the day. At one point, he almost had to duck into a public toilet to vomit but had managed to gain control. Mind over matter.

John had kept an annoyingly close watch over him for most of the day. For someone who was constantly seeing but never observing, he had a knack for noting anything that had to do with Sherlock's health. Several times the doctor had asked if his friend was okay, as well as noting the pale complexion and the shaking hands. Sherlock brushed off all his concerns and cast his attempts at care aside like he normally would and tried to continue on like nothing was wrong.

But something was wrong.

Sherlock, after eating something merely to avoid John's stare, bid his flat-mate goodnight and escaped to the bathroom. Unable to hold it in any longer, Sherlock turned on the shower as high as it would go before regurgitating his meagre supper. As disgusting as it was, he had to admit he felt much better after letting the matter win out over the mind. After regaining his composure, Sherlock peeled his clothes off, noting his shirt clung uncharacteristically to his back, before stepping into the shower. He relished the hot water running over his skin and breathed in the vapours for several minutes. When he turned the water off, Sherlock wondered if maybe he had left it on too long or if it had been too warm, as the room was swaying slightly.

Control.

Even if he had lost the mind over matter debate with his stomach, it did not mean he couldn't win against the dizziness. Palm pressed to the wall, Sherlock steadied himself before going into his bedroom. He found pyjama pants and a t-shirt that smelled clean enough and pulled them on. Not bothering to even hang the damp towel on the back of his door, Sherlock fell into his unmade bed with a sigh of relief.

While he felt unwell, there was some comfort to be found in his bed. It did nothing to make him physically comfortable but it offered the psychological comfort of knowing he was safe and warm. It was a childish notion that a couple of blankets could protect him from the world, but they offered a sanctuary like no other. He liked to believe that he could close his eyes, burrow under the duvet, and when he woke up the next morning, all this sickness would be behind him.

* * *

Sherlock was mistaken in both accounts. First of all, he woke up at three-thirty rather than the normal six forty-five. And when he did, he realized that the sickness was not only still with him, it had grown much worse.

The only word Sherlock could come up with to describe his physical state was dead. He literally, in all his mind palace, could not find a time when he had ever felt this horrible; not in all the childhood flu's, not in the teenage colds that got passed around at school, not even in the university illnesses that acted very much like the teenage colds on steroids, undoubtedly due to lack of sleep, inadequate dietary regimes, and the poor use of spare time to consume substantial quantities of alcohol.

Sherlock tried to kick off the covers without moving. His entire body literally ached and every little movement was interconnected. His foot moving the duvet made his left shoulder hurt and when his foot failed to move the blanket, his hands pushing it away made his thighs ache. If he was feeling better, Sherlock would have noted his findings with the intent of designing an experiment around the connection.

But Sherlock was not feeling better. No, he was feeling sticky and tired and sore. In short, he felt ill. But that didn't work – Sherlock Holmes _did not_ get ill. All the aforementioned illness from youth and school days had done very little to harm him. They never laid him low for more than a couple of hours and they were certainly never anything that required being bed-ridden.

Sherlock stared at the darkness, wondering what to do. He imagined that paracetamol would likely be a wise choice but Sherlock despised taking medicine and besides, it was most likely in the bathroom or kitchen and in all honesty, fetching it sounded like far too much effort at this point. Rather than focusing on treatment, Sherlock began asking questions of himself.

What had caused him to get so ill?

Why did he feel sticky – the room was freezing and yet he was sweating. Was that normal?

Had he done some sort of extraneous activity that could account for the muscle aches? Did he lift something heavy or move in a way that had aggravated his back, which hurt more than any other part of his body?

What had he had for dinner?

This was one question Sherlock could answer. He had chosen a simple meal – some reheated meatloaf that Mrs. Hudson had put in their refrigerator, followed by a glass of milk.

Was the meatloaf bad? Was he lactose intolerant?

These questions, Sherlock's hazy mind realized, were ridiculous. They didn't fit the pattern. He had been feeling ill before dinner, not to mention that that he always drank milk. It was highly unlikely that he developed an intolerance today. Also, John had also had meatloaf. If it had been bad, John would be ill, too, and as far as Sherlock knew, John was sleeping soundly upstairs.

Back to useful questions.

Why was his head so sore?

He rarely experienced headaches. All his deductions had quickly trained his brain to constantly be working, constantly thinking.

Sherlock's mind continued to wander over questions and possible answers as the hours ticked by. He would doze off now and again but never fell into a deep sleep. At one point, Sherlock felt a bead of sweat roll down his face and he had swiped at it angrily, annoyed that his body was rebelling so strongly. At least Sherlock had realized that while his stomach hurt, he did not feel as nauseas as he had during the day. Maybe throwing up had been the right thing to cure him – interesting, Sherlock thought.

Losing track of all sense of time, Sherlock drifted in and out of semi-conscious dreams and he did not notice when the sun began to rise.

**Any guesses as to what's ailing our detective? More to come soon =) **

**Reviews always appreciated! **


	2. Matter over Mind

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (or The Face, which comes up in this chapter!)**

**Hey, everyone! I was so excited by the response the story got, so thank you for your support/interest/encouragement! I feel like I have been writing all weekend (no complaints here … except maybe that part of that writing included a term paper) and I have for your reading pleasure Chapter 2! Enjoy! **

Sherlock felt like he was wandering. Whatever sickness he had come down with was playing with his mind, sending him back in time before rushing him into the future.

Sherlock hated it.

Covered in a thin film of sweat, he felt stiff and achy. His head was pounding, his stomach was rolling around inside of him, and his back was intensely sore. Several hours had passed since he realized he should take paracetamol and yet Sherlock had made no effort to get up and retrieve the medication. It sounded like too much work for his ailing body and besides, it couldn't be too much longer before John's normally annoying trait of worrying about him would prompt the doctor to come knocking on the door.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you in there?"

John's voice at the door pried Sherlock's eyes open and he saw that, judging by the lighting of the room from the windows, the sun was beginning to set over London. Had he really fallen asleep and stayed asleep? Possibly. But if that was the case, shouldn't he feel better, not worse? Sleep was supposed to be good when you were sick … wasn't it? Interesting. Confusing. Disgusting.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to answer but his voice cracked, producing more of a wheeze than his friends' name. However, it was enough for Sherlock to know that John would enter and he let his eyes slide closed.

It was a childish tactic, perhaps, but he hated for John to see him this way. John was more than accustomed to seeing sick people but he hadn't seen a sick Sherlock, which is just the way Sherlock wanted it. Maybe if he closed his eyes, the entire awkward situation could be evaded.

There was the stunned silence as the doctor entered the room and Sherlock could hear John's shoes cross the floor. A moment later, a hand was laid on his cheek and then on his forehead. Sherlock opened his eyes lazily and smiled faintly at John. Realizing that his plan had not worked – obviously he was ill if a plan of his failed – he had decided to embrace the situation. John did not return the smile.

"I was wondering when you'd come." Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Yeah, well, I knew something couldn't be right, you've been holed up here all day. Why have you been in here all day?"

It may have been due to the fever, but Sherlock momentarily wondered what John was on – couldn't he see that he was ill?"

"I'm sick."

"Obviously, but you could've come out to the living room or called."

John rolled his eyes when Sherlock made The Face, the one that said 'we both know the answer to this'.

"Of course, Sherlock Holmes never asks for help." John sighed. "Alright, what's wrong?"

"You're a doctor. Make a deduction."

"This isn't some exercise to hone my deduction skills, Sherlock. I can't know what you're feeling; only you can tell me that."

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. Nothing was ever easy.

"Fever, nausea, vomiting, aching back, sore muscles, headache."

"When did it start?"

"I felt off yesterday morning but I didn't throw up till after dinner last night."

"Have you been sick to your stomach since then?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Have you taken anything – paracetamol or something to settle your stomach?"

"No."

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"You mean to tell me you've been feeling sick all day and never bothered to take some medicine?"

"It was too far to walk."

"Be right back." John said with a roll of his eyes. He returned with a bottle of water, the paracetamol, and the thermometer. The thermometer took its reading and John's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw the reading.

"Your temperature is thirty-nine degrees, Sherlock. It's no wonder you didn't want to move. Here, take these."

John counted three pills from the bottle.

"Do you need help?" John asked, watching Sherlock sit up slowly. Sherlock shot him a glare.

"Of course not."

"Alright, I was just asking." John held out the pills. Sherlock put them in his mouth and swallowed them. John offered him the bottle of water but Sherlock shook his head.

"You have to drink, Sherlock. Take little sips, if it helps."

"It will just come up again."

"No, it won't. Just a few sips."

Sherlock, knowing the doctor would be mistaken, took the bottle and unscrewed the lid. He took three mouthfuls before putting it back on the nightstand. He settled back against the pillows, which slightly eased the horrible feeling of the world swaying. John was still standing by his bed, concern filling his eyes.

"Staring at me won't solve anything, John."

"How did you get so sick, Sherlock? I've never seen you down with a cold, much less the flu. How you manage that without ever sleeping or eating I don't know, but this came out of nowhere."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could feel his prediction was about to come true – his stomach had accepted the water but it was slowly starting to churn again. Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping to combat the remaining dizziness, and swallowed.

This was mind over matter. He was not going to get sick again.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice broke his concentration and Sherlock opened his eyes.

"I'm going to be sick."

"What?"

"The bin, John, I need the bin." Sherlock exclaimed urgently, knowing he was never going to get to the bathroom. Luckily, John had more than a little experience with stomach flu and in one swift motion, he had the garbage bin thrust under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock was sick, vomiting up the only thing in his stomach – water and pills – before dry heaving.

Control. Sherlock fought for control over his stomach, which was convulsing in the most revolting manner.

Stop, you are going to stop.

Sherlock felt his muscles relax and he took in a gulp of air.

"Done?" John asked too soon. The minute his mind had lessened its control, Sherlock felt his stomach contract tightly and he gripped the edges of the bin. He brought up a bit of bile but nothing else, although the painful heaves went on for quite awhile.

Finally, _finally_, Sherlock fell back against the headboard, exhausted. If he thought he felt sticky from sweat before, now it was pouring off his forehead, soaking his curls and t-shirt.

Gross.

"What is wrong with me?" Sherlock moaned, closing his eyes. He heard John put the bin down and walk away. A moment later a refreshingly cool cloth was pressed against his skin.

"John? What is wrong with me?" Sherlock asked again, opening his eyes to see John leaning over him. Worry was now painted on John's entire face.  
"I don't know, Sherlock, but I'll figure it out, I promise."

**I've had a couple of guesses as to the nature of this mystery ailment. One has been close but none have been right yet so keep guessing! More to come as soon as possible, but it's Monday tomorrow so no promises.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated! **


	3. A Sense of Purpose

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone! After a long and busy week, I have for your reading enjoyment … chapter three! I hope you enjoy it as much as the last chapter. Speaking of that, I owe you all one big thank you! Your reviews and support are a huge encouragement to me – and not just in writing! They always make me smile =) **

John had promised to find out what was wrong.

Why had he promised? Wasn't that one of the first things they taught in medical school? Never promise a cure.

Why had he promised? John wondered as he held the bin for Sherlock, who was too exhausted to do it himself. The vomiting was playing with him. Sherlock would finish a bout and fall back, tired and sore from the exertion, and just when he would catch his breath, it started again.

"Calm down, Sherlock." John said in a voice fighting panic, after one particularly bad episode that had caused blood to run from Sherlock's nose. John was holding a tissue to Sherlock's face, clotting the bloody nose. Sherlock was merely lying there, shaking uncontrollably.

"It's okay. I'll find some medicine, something that will stop the vomiting."

John placed the bin in Sherlock's clammy hands and went into the bathroom. He searched the medicine cabinet for something he could give but he noticed his own hands were shaking as he examined medicine bottles. He had never before seen Sherlock in such a desperate state and it scared the living daylights out of him.

Control.

He was supposed to be a doctor, the sight of someone vomiting and hurting was not supposed to frighten him. It was a call for help, not a call to duck away into the shadows. Doctors were who people turned to when they didn't know what to do themselves. And the fact that Sherlock didn't know what to do meant that something was very wrong.

John finally found some medicine that said it worked in ten minutes. From the way things were going, John wasn't sure if ten minutes was short enough to be effective but it couldn't hurt to at least try.

John went back to Sherlock and quickly measured out the purple liquid.

"Here, this should help." John said, handing the small cup to Sherlock. Sherlock eyed it with distaste but dutifully swallowed all of it. He made a horrid face when the medicine met his taste buds and he handed the cup back to John.

"I can't even imagine what that would taste like coming up again. It tasted horrible going down." Sherlock mumbled. John rolled his eyes, although not surprised. It took a lot more than vomiting to completely destroy Sherlock's sense of … well, his sense of being Sherlock.

"Try to keep it down, alright? I know it's hard but the bottle says it takes ten minutes to work. Can you manage that?"

Sherlock gained a determined look in his eye and nodded.

"Leave."

"What?"

"Leave. I'm going to put myself into a hypnotic state. When you come back, all you have to do is snap your fingers."

John looked puzzled as Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed his face muscles.

"Go, John."

John, glancing back at the detective, left the room and closed the door, being sure to check his watch before leaving.

Sherlock had entered his secure place. No one could get to him here; nothing could harm him or interfere with his mind. Here was when he was at the top of his game … the solving of his first case. He had only been a boy but he remembered being congratulated by the police officer, shaking his hand as a flash had gone off.

Sherlock had always known he was different, that he possessed some natural talent, and at that moment he had figured out what he was supposed to do with his life. This was when nothing else mattered anymore. He was addicted to that feeling of invincibility, knowing he was right, that he had solved the puzzle.

Like Sherlock had said, when John entered the room, he saw a stoic Sherlock leaning against the headboard. There was no emotion on his face and he looked calm. John was tempted to leave Sherlock in the trance but he thought better of it and snapped his fingers.

Sherlock's eyes opened like John had pressed a button and the detective looked expectantly up at John.

"Ten minutes already?"

"Twenty, actually. Just wanted to be on the safe side."

"Good thinking, John." Sherlock said with a firm nod. John was rather amazed at the improvement – Sherlock's complexion had gained a bit of colour in the cheeks and his voice was no longer shaking, nor were his hands.

"How's the rest of you feeling?" John asked, laying a hand to Sherlock's cheek, which Sherlock batted away.

"I'm not Inspector Gadget, John. I can't separate into pieces."

Goodness. For a doctor, he had a strange way of addressing his patients. Wait. He wasn't a patient. But then again, he did just spend over forty-five minutes vomiting. Maybe he was a patient. How distasteful.

John rolled his eyes.

"I see your wit hasn't been affected. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I'll be fine. Just need some sleep is all."

"Do you want anything? Some juice maybe?"

"Why would I drink something after throwing up everything I've ingested in the last twenty-four hours?"

"Because your body needs to replace the liquids it's lost."

"My body is fine." Sherlock said, closing his eyes. He wanted John to go away so he could have some privacy. John had performed his duty well – he had played the support and then the medical man and that was all Sherlock needed. He would be fine if he could just get some quiet now. After all, it was just a simple flu, wasn't it?

The muscle soreness, the headache, the fever … those were all common with flu. All he could do was sleep and stay hydrated. Okay, so he wasn't going to do the latter but since when did Sherlock do anything by the books? He had never had much patience for orders and directions.

"You sure you'll be alright?" John's worried voice asked. John could not lose the image of Sherlock vomiting while having blood drip out of his nose. Sherlock opened his eyes and shifted them to John.

"I'm fine, John. There's nothing you can do right now, nothing that needs doctoring. Just go make a cup of tea and watch that show on telly that you love so much."

"I'll be right outside if you need anything." John pressed. He was like an anxious father, nervous to leave his child on the first day of school. Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"John."

"Alright, I'm going." John said, throwing his hands up in surrender. Before he left, though, he studied Sherlock once more. He didn't like the way Sherlock looked; pale complexion, tendrils damp with sweat, and John could see blood stains around his nose.

"John." Sherlock repeated without opening his eyes.

"Okay." John said and he actually left this time, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sherlock opened his eyes once John had gone. He was tired but he was sick of sleep. Sleep was so … boring. So average. He had already gotten more sleep in the past day than he normally got in a week. Maybe that's why he felt so awful … too much sleep. Was that possible? Sherlock sensed an experiment but somehow he knew that now was not the time to conduct it. It was an experiment he had to conduct when his body was well, not fighting some infection. Hmm … maybe he could coerce John into doing this with him. Sherlock wondered if average people felt the same way after too much sleep.

Despite his thoughts, Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and soon he was snoring softly.

**Simple flu? No, my friends, it is not. I've gotten a lot of guesses that have been very close but still no one has guessed correctly. I'll give you a hint – this isn't an adaption of _The Dying Detective_ but think along those lines. **

**Reviews are very much appreciated and I'll try to post one more chapter before Monday! **


	4. Revival

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! As always, thanks for the support and encouragement. Again, as always (I seem to be making a habit out of posting times growing father and father apart), I'm so sorry I never posted a second chapter last weekend … time just got away from me. School is SO BUSY right now and I am exhausted but I've been chipping away at this over the course of the week. Enjoy =) **

Sherlock's night was a bit restless. He woke around eleven o'clock to the unpleasant sensation that he was going to be sick. Luckily, Sherlock had enough time to get to the toilet and vomited up everything he had in his stomach. He could feel that the horrible purple medicine John had forced him to swallow had worn off by the tight clenching of his stomach as he sat against the wall in the bathroom. It wasn't long before Sherlock was vomiting again.

Misery. This was pure misery.

Sherlock's mind tried to convey the message of taking more medicine but the fever, it seemed, was too big of a barrier. So while Sherlock knew he should, he didn't feel like he had it in him to find it, swallow it, and then wait the ten minutes, give or take, for it to work. All he could do was wait for John to come and check on him, which couldn't take long.

* * *

John was already upstairs by the time Sherlock woke up, warm in his bed with a thick novel. It was after midnight when he finished the couple of chapters he had set out to read – it was an effort to become well read, one of those "Goals of Things to do Before you Die" goals – and he closed the book. John wanted to turn out the light and go to sleep but his medical training told him he should check on Sherlock before turning in.

John went downstairs and heard Sherlock's predicament before he saw it. He was still on the steps when he heard the toilet flushing and he broke into a trot.

"Sherlock?" John called through the door.

"Come in." Sherlock's weak voice carried and John entered to find Sherlock leaning against the wall, pale, shaking, and sweating.

Wordlessly, John went into Sherlock's room and returned with the anti-nausea medicine and the thermometer. He measured out the liquid medicine while Sherlock dry heaved, bringing up absolutely nothing, and then handed it to him. Sherlock looked skeptical but drained the cup. John exchanged the empty cup for the thermometer, which Sherlock put in his mouth and leaned back, closing his eyes.

John cleaned out the measuring cup before kneeling by Sherlock and removing the thermometer. As he read the display – 39.2 – Sherlock uttered a bit of a whimper. John looked up and saw Sherlock's face twisted as he fought the urge to vomit. The doctor wanted to tell him to vomit – it was unhealthy to suppress it – but John realized that if Sherlock did, they would have to start over with medicine and there was no telling how long it would take for Sherlock to be successful. John merely watched his friend sympathetically. He saw Sherlock close his eyes, swallowing determinedly, and slowly the look began to fade.

John, after a few minutes, moved across the floor and leaned against the door frame. He didn't say anything, knowing Sherlock had a process for focusing. He had been told often enough to shut up while Sherlock was thinking.

John checked his watch. Four minutes and twenty seconds till ten minutes was up. Of course, John realized that ten minutes was probably an advertising thing, not firmly medically proven. Still, the mind – especially Sherlock's – could be a powerful tool. If Sherlock told himself that after ten minutes the medicine would stop him from being sick, his mind would believe him.

John let his eyes wander around the bathroom, coming back every few seconds to Sherlock. The detective was still leaning against the wall, his legs outstretched and his back straight. His eyes were closed so John could allow his own eyes to linger a bit longer than Sherlock would normally permit, although John had no doubts that Sherlock knew he was being watched.

His friend's hair was sticking to his forehead, damp once again from sweat. His face was pale, obviously, and there were dark circles rimming his eyes. He looked, to be frank, awful.

As Sherlock's eyes opened again slowly, John diverted his and let them wander around the bathroom. The pictures on the wall, the towels rolled up on a shelf, the vanity with their toothbrushes in a glass. John checked his watch; time was up.

"How're you doing?" John asked hesitantly. He didn't want to start something.

"Better." Sherlock answered, sounding, but not looking, confident. "I'm going back to bed."

Sherlock struggled to stand up and John, having stood himself, offered a hand to the detective.

"Thanks." Sherlock said before staggering out the door – his leg was asleep. John, much to Sherlock's annoyance, followed him into the bedroom and hovered in the doorway. Sherlock settled himself gingerly into his bed and exhaled deeply. His stomach clenched slightly but nothing happened.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock said pointedly.

"Call me if you need anything." John responded, before closing the door tightly.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, he was pleased to find his stomach was growling. He pushed himself up, still somewhat sore but infinitely better than the past two days, and glanced at the clock.

How did it get to be nine o'clock in the morning? Sherlock wondered. Wasn't it midnight when he took the last dose of medicine?

How could sleep and illness be so inter-related? It was fascinating.

Sherlock did an analysis of his body – he felt pretty good, actually. His stomach was demanding food; his headache was hardly existent to the point that it didn't even warrant Sherlock's attention and his muscles … well, he could deal with sore muscles for a day. If he had to.

Sherlock pushed himself up from his bed and stretched before heading to the kitchen, pulling the dressing gown on as he went. John was in the living room, reading the papers and drinking a cup of tea. He looked up as Sherlock entered.

"'Morning." John said. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." Sherlock said, sitting in his chair.

"How do you feel?"

"Minimal discomfort."

"Are you hungry?"

Sherlock had been waiting for John to ask this question. Normally, Sherlock, when he was hungry (which wasn't often) would make his own food but he knew that John would do it for him this morning. Sherlock nodded and, like he knew he would, John stood.

"How about some toast and tea?"

"Lovely." Sherlock said, reaching over and picking up a magazine from the side table. He flipped it open and didn't exactly read, but rather just listened to John making breakfast: putting the bread in, turning the kettle on, buttering the toast, pouring the tea.

"Here you go." John said, placing the tea and toast on the desk. "But before you start, I want to check your temperature. Wait a minute."

John disappeared and before he could return, Sherlock was sitting at the desk, munching on a piece of toast. John gave him a look that clearly showed he was not impressed.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said before taking a sip of tea.

"Says the one who was vomiting at midnight." John said, putting the thermometer on the desk and reaching his hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock let it rest there before turning to the doctor.

"See? I told you, I'm fine. It was most likely just a twenty-four hour bug."

"You're still running a fever, Sherlock." John informed him. Sherlock, of course, knew this was true. He had felt it in his skin when he woke up – super sensitive to the touch, plus the achiness that was a sure sign of an elevated body temperature.

"It'll go away on its own. Where's my laptop?"

Sherlock started to get up but John blocked his path, arms crossed.

"No way."

"John, please."

"No, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you go out and solve a case. You're recovering, yes, but you're still ill. You ought to rest today, give your body a chance to catch up."

"My body is fine." Sherlock said, pushing past John. He spotted his laptop on the coffee table and opened it. He loaded the website and saw nothing. He snapped it closed, annoyed and disappointed.

John was watching him. He had to do something lest John try and send him back to bed.

"I'm going to shower." Sherlock announced, not caring about the dishes. John would do them.

"Not too hot." John's voice echoed down the hallway as Sherlock shut the bathroom door. As glad as he was that Sherlock wasn't vomiting anymore (knock on wood), John knew that his day was not going to be short nor easy … Sherlock Holmes was a very stubborn man, sick or not.

**Again, some very close guesses but nothing right so far! I'll give another hint … he hasn't been poisoned. **

**Reviews are always welcome and appreciated and I'm try REALLY hard to have another chapter by the Sunday night =)**


	5. Remission

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Also, 'The Aluminum Crutch' is part of the website BBC set up for Sherlock – the Science of Deduction (if you haven't seen it, you should check it out. It's pretty cool!)**

**Hello, once again! I actually kept my promise this time and posted a second chapter before the weekend is over. Granted, it's rather short and it's a filler but it's still a chapter! As always, thank you so much for all the reads/reviews/faves! They make me remember why I love to write so much =) And now, without further adieu … **

Sherlock paid no heed to John's ministrations over the course of the day. Several times John would come over to Sherlock, laying a hand on his forehead, or from across the room ask him how he was feeling. His answer was always the same – "I'm fine" – and most of the day he believed it. It wasn't until late afternoon, around four o'clock that he began to change his opinion.

John, who _was_ observant when it mattered, saw the faint pain lines form around Sherlock's eyes, saw the paler complexion with rosy cheeks, and saw the glassy element of Sherlock's eyes. He put down his magazine and came over to the desk where Sherlock was working on his website. John laid a hand on Sherlock's cheek, Sherlock not even taking his eyes from his screen and his fingers didn't stop typing.

"You're burning up." John said, reaching for the thermometer that was still sitting on the desk. Sherlock must've anticipated John's action because he wordlessly opened his mouth while continuing to type. John rolled his eyes but stuck the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue and checked his watch.

He waited patiently, reading over Sherlock's shoulder as he worked. He was typing up case notes from a case Sherlock had dubbed 'The Aluminum Crutch'. John wasn't sure if he remembered the case or not but it didn't matter right now. John checked his watch again and removed the thermometer, not at all surprised to see that the reading had gone up to 38.9 from what he was pretty sure had been about 38 that morning. John reached over and shut the laptop lid. Sherlock, slightly lethargic, barely had time to move his hands out of the way. He turned to John indignantly.

"What was that for?"

"You're temperature is up, Sherlock. I want you to get changed and go to bed. I'll bring you some soup and paracetamol."

"No."

"Yes."

John was not going to back down. He was not going to let himself get bullied or conned into letting Sherlock get his way. Not this time.

"What if I refuse?"

"I'll call Lestrade and tell him you've gotten deathly ill and are unavailable until further notice."

"He wouldn't believe you."

"Yes, he would."

"Not when I called him and said I was fine."

"I'll tell him you're delirious."

Sherlock was fuming inside. In all honesty, soup and his bed sounded lovely but he hated, _hated_, giving into John's demands. He wasn't John's puppet that the doctor could move about on a string. However, Sherlock knew that when it came to his health, John was annoyingly protective and would in fact call Lestrade. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Sherlock also knew that Lestrade would believe John's doctor's orders over Sherlock's insistence of his health.

Sherlock stood up, towering over John.

"Fine. Vegetable, if you please."

Sherlock stalked off to his bedroom while John ventured into the kitchen to make some soup. He loaded a tray with a steaming bowl, some crackers, and a glass of water before knocking and entering Sherlock's room. Sherlock was waiting expectantly in his bed, hands folded on top of the covers which were neatly folded around him. John didn't know whether to be pleased or roll his eyes – he spends all day nagging Sherlock to go and rest and when he does, he expects to be treated like a king.

John merely placed the tray on Sherlock's lap and watched as the detective's eyes glanced over everything.

"Need anything else?"

"No, this should suffice. Thank you, John." Sherlock said as he focused on crumbling the crackers over the soup. John cringed – he couldn't stand when people did that, who wants to eat soggy crackers? Still, John was pleased Sherlock was eating a good, hearty meal. Hopefully his fever would break by morning.

* * *

Once Sherlock was done eating, John removed the tray and ensured Sherlock swallowed the paracetamol. Sherlock re-arranged himself so he was starring at the ceiling – the same old boring ceiling – with his hands still folded across the quilt.

"That will be all, John." Sherlock said, addressing the doctor who was standing at the bedside.

"Good night, Sherlock." John said, rolling his eyes this time. He felt like he was being dismissed from Sherlock's presence. Oh well. John would take a dismissal over spending another night holding a bin for Sherlock any day.

* * *

Sherlock woke early the next morning – a good sign – and showered and dressed. He felt fine. His head was clear and working on a theory from the moment he woke up, he wasn't suffering from nausea or dizziness. Yes, Sherlock concluded, he had beaten that flu bug. Good. Now onto more important things.

**So guess what: someone guessed correctly! I won't tell you who, just because I want there to be a bit of an element of surprise later on… although I'm sure you're all so smart you could go through the reviews and deduce what it is (Sherlock would be so proud)! **

**Reviews are always appreciated, thanks! **


	6. Relapse

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! After a very long and very busy week, it was nice to unwind by writing another chapter for you all, although my fingers are tired from typing so much today (I wrote a 5000 word paper this afternoon so I'm sorry if there's any typos in this. I'm probably too tired to even catch them!). Anyways, thank you, as always for your awesome support and encouragement. Enjoy =) **

Once John had verified that Sherlock was truly healthy again – temperature was normal, appetite was fine, breakfast stayed down – life continued on as usual in 221B Baker Street. Lestrade had texted during breakfast and after waiting the half-hour John insisted upon (begrudgingly, mind you, but Sherlock did wait), the two of them got a cab to New Scotland Yard. It was the first of many stops that day, and it was dark by the time the duo made it back to Baker St. John fell onto the couch, wind-swept, cold, and tired. Sherlock was hanging up his coat when John suggested some take-away because there was next to nothing in the refrigerator, besides a cut up human liver.

"No, thanks. I'm going to bed."

John turned in surprise to Sherlock, although his back was still turned as the detective tried to fit his gloves in the pocket of his coat.

"It's still early." John said.

"Yes, but I am tired."

"You never get tired."

"Obviously not true as I am tired now."

John, by this point, had stood up and walked towards Sherlock, who was still struggling with the gloves. John reached in and easily fit them into the pocket.

"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked, glancing concernedly at Sherlock.

"Fine." Sherlock answered immediately, turning away and not thanking John for his help. John followed Sherlock into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on for himself. Sherlock, on the other hand, gazed down at his laboratory notebook where he had scribbled something of supposed importance.

"I thought you were going to bed." John said, pouring water into a cup after the kettle had clicked off.

"I was." Sherlock said, his voice oddly muffled. John, still dipping a tea bag in the steaming water, turned to ask again if Sherlock was alright.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John exclaimed, leaving his cuppa. Sherlock was pressing a tissue to his nose, one that was very quickly become soaked with blood.

"Come, sit down." John said, leading Sherlock to a kitchen chair.

"Did it just start?" John asked as he reached around for more tissues. He pulled a handful from the box and handed them to Sherlock, who pressed them to his nose.

"Pinch gently, right below the nose." John instructed, not waiting for an answer and checking his watch. Sherlock followed his instructions and five minutes ticked slowly by.

"Okay, see if it's stopped." John said and Sherlock slowly removed the tissue, relieved to find his nose had stopped bleeding.

"Did it just start?" John repeated, bending over to take a closer look. Sherlock pushed him away and stood up, tossing the tissues into the garbage and then going to the sink to wash his hands.

"Yes. It splattered on my notebook, too."

John rolled his eyes – leave it to Sherlock to be concerned about his lab notes.

"You should go to bed." John said once Sherlock was drying his hands. "You look tired."

Sherlock didn't argue, which should have been a warning sign for John, but went to into the bathroom. John heard the shower turn on and returned to his tea.

* * *

Several hours later, John had fallen asleep on the sofa when Sherlock's door clicked open and the detective came strolling into the sitting room. He sat in his chair to think.

When John woke up, he jumped at the stoic Sherlock in front of him.

"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, his heart beating a bit faster than normal.

"Couldn't sleep." Sherlock answered, not diverting his eyes.

John rubbed his eyes and stood up, stretching. He was all set to go to bed when he noticed that Sherlock looked … it wasn't pale, but more a bit yellow. Maybe it was the light. John went into the kitchen and turned the bright light on and peered back in at Sherlock. No, he was definitely jaundiced.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked again. He knew Sherlock hated that question – "I don't need to be coddled, John. I can take care of myself." – but he had to ask. He was a doctor; it was who he was.

Sherlock, however, didn't have to give an answer. He sat there, still staring at a random point on the floor but not really staring at it at all. His mind, for once, was blank. There was nothing working itself out, no problem that he was devising an experiment to fix.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped at the proximity of the voice and blinked to find John standing right in front of him.

"John."

"You didn't answer me. Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine …" Sherlock waited a moment and then looked up at John. "You're not convinced. Go to bed, John."

"No." John answered defensively. "You're jaundiced."

"What?"

"It means your skin is yellow."

"I know what it means."

"Then will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

John sighed.

"Jaundice doesn't just happen by itself, Sherlock. It's a sign that something's going on in your body. Plus you had a nose bleed, which when you add that to the fact that you were ill a couple days ago … I don't think what you were laid low with was just flu, Sherlock."

"And what do you think, pray tell, I'm suffering from?"

"I don't know yet. I need you to tell me what else is wrong."

Sherlock sighed. This was making his head hurt, not to mention that his stomach was already aching.

"You know, I think I'll be able to sleep now." Sherlock said, standing. He walked by John without uttering good night and closed the door. He fell into bed and was lying there with closed eyes when the door opened again. How annoying.

"John, I told you to go away." Sherlock said in a somewhat weaker voice that bordered more on a whine than an order and forgetting that he had not said that at all. He had told John to go to bed, not to go away. Confusion … he never forgot what he said. Curious. Irritating, really.

John had ignored what Sherlock said and had boldly stuck a hand out, laying it on Sherlock's forehead before the detective could object, although the hand didn't rest there long before it was swatted away.

"You're burning up, Sherlock." John said before Sherlock could reprimand him.

"I don't care."

"Let me take your temperature."

"No."

"Sherlock." John used his doctor voice, which Sherlock had to admit, was pretty good. It had just enough warming tones to be threatening and embodied a figure of authority. Sherlock, by this point, really did wish John would go away and he knew the fastest way would be to just do what he wanted.

"Fine."

"Good. Here." John had already unearthed the thermometer, which Sherlock realized had still been on his bedside table. He waited and then John checked the reading.

"Your fever is back." John announced, putting the thermometer on the table again. "I'll get you some paracetamol and hopefully it's just a night-time thing that'll be gone in the morning."

John left and Sherlock thought what a stupid phrase that was. Why would a night-time thing still be around in the morning? It was clearly then not a night-time thing but an all-the-time thing. Stupid.

His flat-mate returned with two pills and a glass of water, which Sherlock gulped down, hoping it would stay down. His stomach was not feeling particularly agreeable but Sherlock hoped he would be able to fall asleep before anything too drastic happened. John, sensing what Sherlock was feeling, moved the bin closer to his bed before bidding Sherlock good night, adding that his phone was on if he needed anything.

John quietly closed the door and Sherlock tried to relax. His body was beginning to ache again, although the paracetamol would help with that soon. Sherlock had an idea of what was wrong with him given this relapse but he didn't want to say anything to John just yet. If anymore symptoms appeared, he'd tell John his suspicions but only then. He wasn't about to blow his secret if he didn't have to.

Sherlock stretched his legs before curling into a tight ball, hoping his stomach would stop hurting and that he would fall asleep. He didn't know how long he lay there, feeling the sweat form on his back and brow. Gross. Now he'd have to shower again, which was just a waste of time.

Sherlock didn't know what time it was when his stomach stopped behaving. Feeling like he was going to be sick, Sherlock sat up and brought the bin up to his lap before being sick. He took a deep gulp of air, trying to quell the shaking but he tasted blood in his mouth. He put a hand to his face and when he pulled it away, it was covered in blood. His nose was bleeding again. Sherlock looked around for something to press to his nose but there was nothing within arms reach except his mobile.

_John._

That was all the text said. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to write that he needed help. It didn't matter anyways. Not three minutes after the text had been sent, John was in Sherlock's room, having arrived, left, and returned with a box of tissues.

It was an endless cycle.

John, who had long since donned a pair of rubber gloves, would just get the bleeding stopped and Sherlock would vomit violently, thus causing a fresh stream of blood to flow from his nose.

Sherlock had no idea how long this went on but when he finally managed to quell the nausea, his throat was raw and he had noticed there was now blood in his vomit as well. Sweat was pouring off him again.

This was misery. Utter misery.

But as John gently took the basin to the bathroom and emptied it, returning with it and a cold compress, Sherlock knew he had to share his secret.

"John?" his voice was raspy as he laid back against the pillows, which John had stacked to help support him. John was busy cleaning Sherlock up a bit and seemed distracted.

"John?"

"Mhmm?"

"There's something you should know."

**Last cliff-hanger (of this story, at least)! I've gotten several people guessing correctly now (look at you guys, you're getting good at this deduction stuff!) and I'm excited to reveal what's going on. I *may* get another chapter done this weekend but no promises. With only two weeks of classes left, I am super busy so updates will be a little slower than usual for me, so I'm sorry in advance!**

**That being said, a review is always a nice way to ask for an update sooner =) **


	7. Calling in the Reserves

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello again, everyone! Wow, two nights in a row … just goes to show that I didn't feel like doing homework today. So I wrote Sherlock instead … but don't get used to it. I may never feel like doing homework but most days I'm pretty good about being disciplined enough to get 'er done. Anyways, here it is: the explanation you've all been waiting for. Enjoy! **

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, a bit dumbfounded, still holding the compress.

"You mean to say that you were in Bolivia for three days and didn't tell me?"

"You didn't ask." Sherlock answered, feeling drowsy.

"You told me you were going to Berlin for a conference last week."

"Yes."

"So instead you jumped on a plane to South America?"

"I really did go to Berlin." Sherlock insisted. "It just so happened that while I was there, something came up that required my attention."

"And naturally you couldn't let me know where you were going?"

"I didn't see why you needed to know."

John rolled his eyes. This was pointless. Sherlock would never admit that he should've let John know (to be fair, there _was_ cell reception in Bolivia. It was spotty, but it was there). However, it didn't matter at the moment. What _did_ matter was the fact that Sherlock was vomiting up blood, his nose wouldn't stop bleeding, his was running a fever, and he was jaundiced. Given his recent trip, John was almost positive that Sherlock was suffering from yellow fever.

"You need to go to hospital." John said, knowing his advice would not be well received. He was right.

"No." Sherlock flat out refused. "I don't go to hospitals, nor do I go to the surgery. There is nothing they can do there that you can't do here."

"Yes, there is." John insisted. "They'll run blood tests, confirm a diagnosis, and then determine a course of treatment. I can't confirm a diagnosis without a blood test."

"And what do you think I have, Doctor?"

"Yellow fever."

Sherlock let his eyes travel to the ceiling.

"Thought as much."

"What?" John asked, feeling his temper rise. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I only put it together tonight when my nose started bleeding."

"That was still over six hours ago."

"What does it matter? I'm still ill."

"And thanks to your stubbornness, you're about to get even more ill."

"Don't be so dramatic." Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand. As much as he wanted to tell John to go back to bed and that he was fine, Sherlock knew that was not the case. He could feel it in his stomach and it took less than a minute before he was vomiting again.

John, despite his annoyance, stayed with Sherlock while he was sick, somewhat relieved that his nose did not start again with this round of sickness. When Sherlock was done, John re-moistened the cloth and let Sherlock wipe down his face.

"I'll be right back." John said, leaving Sherlock's room. He checked his watch, although he didn't really care what time it was. He pulled his mobile from the wall, where it had been charging and scrolled through his contacts, selecting Mycroft's name.

"_John, it is four o'clock in the morning. I'm assuming this is important."_

"I know, and I'm sorry. But it's Sherlock."

"_What has my brother done this time?"_

"He's ill and refuses to go to hospital."

"_Do you have a diagnosis?" _

"Yeah, I think it's yellow fever."

"_Don't tell me, he went away to somewhere without telling you and now he's contracted a tropical illness? Don't be ashamed, John. You're not the first one he's fooled." _

"I need your help." John ignored Mycroft's supposed-to-be comforting words. He didn't really care that Sherlock had done this before. Any previous time, he hadn't come home deathly ill.

"_What can I do?"_

"I need to get a blood test to determine if my diagnosis is correct, and if it is, I'll need some things to treat him."

"_Such as?"_

"There is no cure for yellow fever, you can only treat the symptoms. I'd need an IV kit so I can keep him hydrated and get some medicine into him. He vomits up everything he swallows."

"_I will see what I can do. Expect someone within the next hour."_

"Thanks."

"_And John? I don't want to give the impression that I care about Sherlock, but please keep me informed."_

"Yeah, right, of course."

John ended the call and sighed before heading back to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway where Sherlock couldn't see him, arms crossed. He hated seeing Sherlock like this; sprawled out in bed, a yellow colour in his skin, except for under his nose, which was slowly being stained red. He was sweating, curls fanned out on his forehead.

"I talked to Mycroft." John said, advancing to stand at the edge of the bed.

"Why?" Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"He's sending over some equipment so you don't have to go to hospital."

"Equipment?" Sherlock opened his eyes slightly and there was a question in his tone.

"I'm going to take some blood samples so I can get a positive diagnosis." John answered. "And he's sending over some medication and an intravenous kit."

"I don't want an IV."

"I don't care."

"John."

"Sherlock."

It was a battle of wills, and one John was going to ensure he won, although he would battle it later when Sherlock was feeling even more ill.

"Try and get some sleep." John said, switching off one of the lamps. "I'll be around if you need me."

Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes already closed, and John retreated to the sitting room. He stretched out on the sofa with a blanket and tried to fall asleep himself, although he knew it was pointless. His mind was pre-occupied.

How could he have missed this?

Because it looked like a bad case of flu and Sherlock hadn't told him he'd gone to the tropics.

Wasn't Sherlock immunized against such diseases? They were standard travel shots.

Vaccinations were probably just a waste of time in Sherlock's mind. Anyways, a vaccination didn't always mean protection.

What was the mortality of yellow fever?

John had to search his brain a bit for the answer to this one; medical school seemed like ages ago.

Yellow fever had three stages.

First stage was like flu. That had been the first fever and vomiting.

Second stage was a pseudo remission. Obviously, that had been that morning when Sherlock's temperature was normal and John let him go back to work.

The final stage was the relapse, characterized by re-appearance of a high fever and accompanied by bleeding from the eyes, nose, or mouth, and excessive vomiting, often blackened due to blood. Organ failure was not unheard of, nor was a coma. About 50% of those in the toxic stage died. The other 50% survived with little to no effects.

John sighed. 50-50 were not great odds, but better than anything less than 50, obviously, and he felt confident that they had caught the yellow fever early enough to treat the side effects. As he had told Mycroft, there was no cure and only side effects could be treated. John sighed again. The toxic stage for yellow fever lasted up to two weeks. He didn't know if he could take two weeks of bloody noses, vomiting, and sleepless nights.

What was he saying? Of course he could. It was Sherlock, after all.

John had just managed to dose when he heard a knock on the door downstairs. Jumping up, he thundered down the stairs, forgetting how early it was, and threw the door open. Someone in a dark suit was there holding two large duffel bags and a small cooler.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, hi, come in." John said, opening the door widely. The man entered and followed John up the stairs.

"Mr. Holmes instructed me to wait while you collect your samples and then I'm to deliver them to a lab."

John nodded his approval and unzipped one of the bags, impressed at what Mycroft was able to secure for him. There were several IV lines, needles, and bags of saline in one. The other contained vials and needles for drawing blood, as well as some needles filled with medications. John glanced at them momentarily, noting they treated things like fever, pain, and vomiting. This bag was a fully stocked medical supply kit, including, among other things, gauze, disinfectant, medical tape, rubbing alcohol, a stethoscope, an electronic thermometer and a box of protective covers, a blood pressure gauge, small flashlights, sterile dressings, an elastic rubber band for drawing blood, a hospital gown, and a medical chart waiting to be filled in. There was even a box of gloves in his size and a waste hazard bucket.

"I'll be back in a few minutes." John said, ripping open the box of gloves, taking two, and gathering the vials, needle, elastic band, some gauze squares, medical tape, and hazard bucket. He went into Sherlock's room, setting the bucket on the night stand and turning on the lamp.

"John." Sherlock complained, draping an arm over his eyes to block the light. John ignored him, pulling on the gloves and arranging the vials on the night stand.

"I need your arm." John announced and without opening his eyes, Sherlock surrendered the arm closest to John.

"You're not scared of needles, are you?"

"Drugs, John."

What a stupid question.

"Right, sorry." John said absently, pushing Sherlock's sleeve up and tying the elastic around his upper arm. Feeling for a vein, John found one and holding it, expertly uncapped the needle with one hand and slid it in. Sherlock didn't respond to the needle and John quickly filled six vials with blood before sliding the needle out and pressing a gauze square to the injection sight. Not trusting Sherlock to keep pressure on it, John held it for a moment before taping in it place.

Sherlock, through all of this, remained stoic, not opening his eyes or talking, which suited John just fine. A quiet Sherlock, after all, was not a vomiting Sherlock. John disposed of the needle and the gloves before gathering the vials and taking them into the living room. The suited man silently held out the cooler and John placed them in the rack before filling out the forms the man gave him. Sherlock's name, address, birth date, and medical number were already filled in and all John had to do was check the boxes for what tests he wanted done. Signing his name under "Attending Physician", John handed back the clipboard.

"I'll get these over to the lab right away, Dr. Watson. You should be contacted before ten o'clock."

"Thanks."

John watched the man leave before turning back to the medical bags. He moved them into the kitchen, clearing the island and table of all clutter (including Sherlock's microscope and experiments) and set about organizing his supplies.

**I had a reviewer point out that most sick!fics never seem to take proper medical steps to care for Sherlock and I realized they were completely right. So I changed it up a bit and while Sherlock will not go to a hospital (surprise, surprise), he will have the best medical care John can give =) **

**Thanks, as always, for the amazing reviews! You guys are the best and while I wish I could update before next weekend, I most likely will not so thank you for your patience with my hectic schedule. **

**Reviews are always appreciated! **


	8. Perfection

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone! As always, thank you for your patience and support! Your interest is always greatly appreciated. Here's the next chapter and I'll probably have another one this weekend (more about the next chapters at the end, though!). I'm sorry that this chapter feels a bit of a filler but these are all things that need to happen for the story to continue so I can keep torturing Sherlock … I mean, making him better :P Enjoy! **

John, satisfied he had everything neatly laid out and organized, went to check on Sherlock, taking the stethoscope, high tech thermometer, and box of covers with him.

"How are you doing?" John asked, setting the box of thermometer covers on the table and looping the stethoscope around his neck. He had forgotten how natural it felt.

"Do you really need to ask that every time you come in?" Sherlock asked, somewhat grumpy. John let it slide – obviously Sherlock wasn't feeling well and everyone had the right to be a bit grumpy when ill.

"Yes, I do." John said, turning on the electronic display. It flashed to life, played a little jingle, and then prompted John to insert the probe into the patient's mouth. Pulling the probe from the machine, John slipped a cover on it and handed the entire set to Sherlock.

"Under your tongue," John added, a bit unnecessarily, Sherlock thought. He knew how to take a temperature … he just didn't _want_ to take his temperature. However, Sherlock knew John was only trying to help and the sad truth was that he needed it. What a demeaning thought.

Nonetheless, Sherlock slipped the probe into his mouth and watched with interest as the display indicated it was taking a reading. John, meanwhile, had put the stethoscope in his ears and bent over Sherlock, sliding the disk under Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock flinched when the cold metal touched his skin and John was thankful the thermometer wasn't done yet, ensuring Sherlock couldn't respond verbally. John listened to Sherlock's heart and breathing, shifting the apparatus around his chest. He removed it at the same time the thermometer beeped. Looping the ear pieces around his neck, John took the probe from Sherlock's mouth and the display from his hands.

Sherlock could see the worry in John's eyes, although he knew the doctor would try and hide it.

"How bad is it?"

"It's fine." John answered quickly, setting the device on the bedside table and making a mental note to get an extra bin in the bedroom for the covers, gloves, and other such matters.

"John." Sherlock's tone made John look him in his eyes, which while still jaundiced, were sincere. "Please tell me. I know it's not good but I have to know."

John sighed.

"It's high, Sherlock." Sherlock was expecting a number. John sighed again. "40.2."

Sherlock nodded slightly, his eyes shifting to the ceiling. 40.2 … that _was_ high. No wonder he felt so awful.

"I need to start you on an IV," John said, shifting uncomfortably. Sherlock's head snapped to the side and his eyes looked lively.

"No."

"Sherlock," John said with a sigh. This was not going to be neither easy nor pleasant. "You need medicine …"

John was going to continue lecturing but stopped when he saw a trail of blood run from Sherlock's nose. He had a suspicion that Sherlock was about to be sick and handed him the bin. He left, coming back with tissues, the box of rubber gloves, which he set next to the thermometer covers, and another bin. As he slipped on the gloves, Sherlock started vomiting. Again, there was blood in the vomit, both bright red and black. It wasn't a good sign.

When Sherlock had finished, John slipped a hand behind his back to support him and held a tissue to Sherlock's nose. It took a few minutes, but John finally got the nose to stop gushing blood and Sherlock fell back against his pillows, exhausted. John disposed of the tissues and gloves.

"Sherlock, you need medicine." he repeated. "It'll help the fever, the vomiting, and the bleeding, which, if it doesn't stop soon, means a blood transfusion."

"Surely I haven't lost that much blood," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's not the point." John responded. "You will if you continue to bleed like this every time you throw up."

Sherlock closed his eyes and waved his hand idly.

"Fine. Go do your doctor thingy then."

Doctor thingy? That didn't sound like Sherlock … but wasn't that the point? John had Sherlock's permission to start and IV and that was what mattered. He went into the kitchen and selected a bag of saline, IV tubing, and needle, plus the medical tape and some alcohol swabs.

"Which arm do you want it on?" John asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"Which side do you normally sleep on?"

"Right."

"Then I'll use your right arm."

Sherlock, without opening his eyes, surrendered his right arm. The doctor was amazed at how quickly this all came back to him. He hooked the bag of saline to the bed with a clamp – he'd need to improve that design – and flushed the line before disinfecting Sherlock's hand and inserting the needle. Connecting the tubing, he taped the needle in place.

"Comfy?"

Sherlock grunted, obviously annoyed with the situation. John didn't really care and went to the kitchen, studying the syringes of medication. Selecting one for vomiting first, John went back to Sherlock's room and expertly added the dose.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed and John laid a hand on his brow, frowning. Leaving again, he returned with a compress, which he situated before leaving for the final time, closing the door part-way.

As soon as he was gone, Sherlock opened his eyes and removed the compress. He didn't consider himself sick enough to require that measure yet … but he knew it was coming. Yellow fever was a serious disease and Sherlock knew it. However, he didn't dwell on that. Rather, his thoughts drifted to John.

It was plain to see that John had selected the right career. He had an essence about him that made him the perfect doctor – well, as perfect as someone who stuck their noses into everyone's business could be. Nothing seemed to turn him off or make him shy away.

He was always there with a bin, rubbing Sherlock's back as he vomited, telling him he was going to be okay.

When his nose was bleeding, John was there making sure it stopped.

The fever, John genuinely wanted it to go down because he knew the effects fevers could have.

It didn't matter what rude remark Sherlock made or what descending comment graced his lips, John stayed by his side.

Why?

Sentiment, no doubt. But maybe sentiment was good in a doctor. Or maybe it was just good in John.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last doctor he had besides John so he didn't really know if all doctors were as caring towards their patients. He doubted it. John was different.

There was a sense of tranquility that followed the seemingly quiet man. He was there all the time – which could be quite annoying – and Sherlock knew that all he had to do was call or, as he had done, text John's name and his angel of mercy would be there.

Somehow, that thought made having yellow fever seem infinitely less scary and Sherlock smiled slightly before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

**Like I said, a bit of a filler … lots of coming and going done by John, doing his doctor thingy. **

**So now that Sherlock has about 2 weeks of illness and I'm trying to avoid just writing a bunch of chapters that sound the same, I'm asking what you'd like to read. A symptom you'd like to see played up, a moment between the two (non-slash!), a thought process in either of them, a different character. I'm open and any and all suggestions – and credit given where due, of course! **

**Anways, I hoped you liked it and reviews are always appreciated =) **


	9. In Dreams

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and the title, In Dreams, is a song from Lord of the Rings, which I also do not own. **

**Hello, everyone! Welcome to exam week (yay …) So I have been trying for three nights now to write some hallucinations and let me tell you, I have struggled with it. It has not been easy. That being said, I finally got something I'm happy with. Just a bit of a disclaimer, I am NOT a Molly/Sherlock shipper. Just keep that in mind … that, and the fact that he as a high fever. Okay, I'm done. Enjoy! **

Sherlock lost track of time after that. His body temperature continued to climb and he became delirious. Some of the dreams he had were memories of real events that had happened and some were the product of his subconscious and imagination. Some of them weren't even about him, but rather about John.

* * *

Sherlock was a young boy, about ten years old. He was in primary school, learning boring facts that he didn't bother to retain after he passed the test. Sherlock would literally learn a concept, be tested on it, and then delete it. Obviously he knew the basics of every subject, more or less, but anything after that was pointless. The only subject this didn't apply to was science; all science was useful.

One day, in class, Sherlock was honing observation skills – there was a hole in one girl's skirt, another was wearing two different barrettes. The boy opposite him had broken his glasses and glued them together, too afraid to tell his mother. The clock by the door was fast by three minutes and the second hand was inconsistent. The bulletin board had been redone but Sherlock noticed that there were now only three red tacks instead of four. A new white one was holding the fourth corner of a poster. The other red tack was now between the wall and bookshelf; the teacher had been unable to reach it when she dropped it.

"Sherlock, would you please answer the question?"

"What was it?" Sherlock asked bluntly. The teacher – Sherlock didn't even know her name – looked annoyed.

"I asked you to explain the difference between an adjective and adverb."

Dull. They had had an English test the day before and now they were reviewing material that was already covered. How stupid.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered. "It's pointless, I'll never need to know it so I deleted it."

This was the first time Sherlock had said his thoughts out loud but he was so sick of wasting time learning things he would never use. The teacher looked over the rim of her glasses – they were missing a rhinestone, Sherlock noted – with a look of disbelief on her face. She had never had a problem with any student so she had never had to exhibit an air of authority. Pursing her lips, she straightened, putting on her best teacher face.

"Mr. Holmes, please go to the hallway. I will be out in a few minutes to escort you to the director's office."

Sherlock stood, sighing. At least the director's office wouldn't be as dull as grammar class.

* * *

Sherlock was now in St. Bart's mortuary with Molly. He was leaning over a cadaver that had been left for science and Molly was standing back, dressed in protective mask and gown.

"Are you sure you don't want a gown, or maybe a mask?" Molly asked, watching Sherlock poke around the chest. "He hasn't been drained yet and what you're poking, it's liable to - "

Molly cringed as the tissue squirted blood onto Sherlock's front, hitting his white shirt and splattering onto his face.

"Oh, are you alright?" Molly sputtered, as Sherlock wiped his eyes.

"Fine." he said, accepting the towel she handed him. "Perfectly fine. Where were we?"

Sherlock had handed the towel back to her and was leaning over the cadaver again, a stunned look on Molly's face.

It wasn't till the point where he was leaving the mortuary that the memory altered itself, becoming a construction of his subconscious. Sherlock was shrugging on his coat, Molly watching.

"You missed a spot," Molly said, picking up the towel and after moistening it under the tap, she pressed it to Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock didn't flinch or move away, but let Molly gently scrub his face clean of blood. While she did so, Sherlock found himself looking at her eyes. He had never realized how beautiful she really was. Her eyes were a deep … wait, what was he doing? Was he actually thinking about Molly in _that_ way? No. No. Sherlock Holmes _did not_ do that.

* * *

Now Sherlock found himself as an invisible observer as John worked on a patient. He was still in residency and working a shift at the A&E. Sherlock was aware of the entire room, divided by curtains. It was loud and people were milling around everywhere, although no one seemed to notice him.

John was suturing up the arm of a young girl.

There was the noise of someone vomiting, a child crying, a woman screaming. A gurney was wheeled past Sherlock, its passenger a man in a neck brace who was covered in blood. John seemed oblivious to it all, completely focused on what he was doing. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder; John did nice work. John finished and stripped off the gloves, writing something on the chart before leaving and pulling the curtain closed. He went to the desk and filled out a form. While standing there, the A&E doors burst open and a woman carrying a small boy in her arms yelled for someone to "Help me, please! My son, he isn't breathing." John quickly abandoned the form and led the woman to an empty bed. Sherlock watched with interest as John checked for a pulse, a throat obstruction, and then began compressions. Another doctor joined him and together, they continued CPR until a crash cart appeared out of nowhere and John grabbed the paddles.

"Charge!" he commanded. "Clear!"

John administered the shock and Sherlock saw him watch the monitor intently before breathing a sigh of relief as the boy regained a heartbeat.

"Alright, give him some space," John said, pushing the nurses back with his arm. He leaned over and smiled.

"Hi, my name's John. Can you tell me your name?"

The little boy's eyes focused on John and then drifted to his mother, who nodded encouragingly.

"It's alright, Sweetie. Answer the question."

The boy turned back to John.

"Liam."

"Well, Liam, you gave us quite a scare, but we're going to take care of you, okay? We'll figure out what's going on."

As John continued with Liam, Sherlock was surprised. He had never seen John interact with children, yet he was so naturally comfortable with them. Interesting.

* * *

Molly Holmes. Chloe Holmes.

What? Sherlock looked around his surroundings, unaware of how he got there. He was staring at a tombstone that read Molly Holmes and Chloe Holmes. Molly's birth date was listed, followed by the date of her death. November 14, 2028.  
2028? When did it get to be 2028, Sherlock wondered. And who was Chloe Holmes?

Sherlock became aware of the ring on his fourth finger. When did he get married?

There were so many questions.

Something was tugging at his coat and Sherlock looked down to see a little girl with long red hair.

"Daddy, I'm cold."

Daddy? Who was this child? Why was she calling him daddy?

No, this had to be all wrong. John, where was John?

John suddenly appeared, looking much older and greyer than Sherlock remembered. Trailing behind him was a boy who looked to be about seven. The boy looked very much like Sherlock, the ice blue eyes (Sherlock realized the girl had the same ones) and the dark, curly hair.

"Do you want me to take them home?" John asked softly, joining Sherlock at the grave.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said in monotone. "What happened?"

John sighed.

"I did everything I could, Sherlock, but the labour was too early and too fast. She couldn't take it."

Oh. So Chloe had been their third (?) child and Molly had died giving birth to her. And now Sherlock had two nameless children to raise.

"John, I can't do this. I never wanted this, I didn't love her."

* * *

"I never loved her, John." Sherlock mumbled under his breath. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, concerned. He was bathing Sherlock's face generously, and had been for about thirty minutes now.

"No, I don't want to be called daddy," Sherlock said, pulling his hand into himself. "Leave me alone, please."

"Sherlock, wake up!" John said softly, trying to interrupt the dream.

"John, you have to help me. I don't know what to do."

Sherlock's voice was becoming clearer and he sounded genuinely panicked.

"Sherlock, I'm right here." John said, louder this time, and Sherlock's eyes flew open and his breathing became very rapid. The ice blue eyes were looking everywhere, trying to regain a sense of direction and location. Sherlock seemed to relax when he realized he was in his bedroom, even more so when he saw John.

"Bad dream?" John asked, replacing the compress. Sherlock swallowed.

"Nightmare. What time is it?"

"About three o'clock in the morning." John said, checking his watch.

"What are you still doing up?"

"Taking care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of. Go to bed, John."

"Your fever, Sherlock, it's dangerously high. In the forties."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Fevers were so pointless.

"Yes, and it'll still be there in the morning. High fevers are a symptom of yellow fever. Go to bed."

"Not till you take some more medicine."

"Fine, whatever." Sherlock said, just to get John out of his room. He needed to think after a dream like that. Sherlock hurriedly swallowed two pills, choking on the water. Thankful it didn't trigger a vomiting spree, Sherlock allowed John to replace the compress one more time before heading up to bed.

The moment John was gone, Sherlock removed the compress – he never had much patience for that particular method of nursing – and rolled onto his side, somewhat annoyed by the IV line taped to his wrist, although he knew better than to remove it.

The first dream, while he didn't know where it had come from, was a memory. Nothing special.

The one about John was interesting … he wondered if it had actually happened. Interesting, if it had, he'd have developed some sort of telepathy with John, then. He'd have to remember to ask.

The first one with Molly … it had been mostly real. He _had_ gotten blood all over his face one day. The only part that had been odd was him noticing she was beautiful. And then the whole _thing_ … Sherlock didn't even know what to call it … with the kids and Molly dying. That had come from who knows where and the idea made Sherlock's skin crawl. He trusted Molly, yes, but he would _never_ marry her, nor _ever_ have children with _anyone_. It was, as he had told John, a nightmare.

Sherlock tried to shift his thoughts away from Molly. He didn't want to think about her at all at the moment. He tried to focus on how he was feeling.

Arms achy, calves sore. He was drenched in sweat, which felt disgusting but he was too exhausted to even think about getting fresh clothes. His head was spinning slightly and his stomach was aching, although he didn't want food. He knew he should be drinking but even the thought of holding a cup to his lips, while sitting up, seemed too much. And although he was tired of sleeping, Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep, praying that he wouldn't dream about _anything_.

**Let me just reiterate, I don't ship Molly and Sherlock … cute as friends but nothing more. The dream was literally meant to be the product of a high fever and a mind that ran away with itself. That being said, I hope you enjoyed his hallucinations! **

**Also, I'm still open to suggestions for scenes as Sherlock recovers, it's going to be awhile yet so I'd love to hear what you have. Credit given, of course =) **

**Third, it's exam week so I don't know if I'll get another chapter up soon or not … it's really a day by day thing for me now. I hope to but no promises. **

**Thanks, as always, for your support. Reviews are always appreciated! **


	10. Pain

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello everyone! Hope all you college students out there are hanging in there … it's almost done! Anyways, I had some requests for some more pain for Sherlock so here it is. Enjoy! **

The detective had no idea how long he slept for but when he woke up, he felt like he couldn't move. He had fallen asleep curled in a ball and he had woken up in a ball. His first instinct was that something didn't feel right.

He knew he was ill. He knew he was on a drip. And yet, he also knew that something had changed, something felt off.

Sherlock experimentally uncoiled a leg and then he realized what the problem was. He _hurt_. Not in a stub-your-toe kind of way, or even punch-in-the-nose way. No, his entire abdomen felt like it was on fire, a dull ache accented by sharp jabs.

Sherlock stretched out his other legs, turning onto his back.

Pain. That was all Sherlock really registered.

"John?" Sherlock tried to call but the minute he took in a deep breath, he felt something like a jack knife being pulled across his stomach and Sherlock instinctively curled into a ball again, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Fortunately, John had heard his name being called and opened the door.

"You okay?"

Sherlock didn't respond, a better answer than any words could offer.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?" John asked, coming to the edge of the bed. Sherlock did not uncurl or roll over so John went to the other side of the bed so he could see Sherlock's face. It was gleaning with sweat.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong."

"Pain."

"You're in pain?"

Of course he was in pain. He wouldn't have said it if it weren't true. Stupid question, John. Still, despite his thought, Sherlock nodded, biting his lip.

"Where?"

"Abdomen."

"Did it just start or has it been building?"

Sherlock really wished John would stop asking him questions but he knew that the doctor was only trying to help. Sherlock swallowed.

"I woke up with it."

John nodded, although Sherlock couldn't see him.

"Can you go onto your back for me?" John asked, going to the other side of the bed. Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock? I know it hurts, but I have to exam you."

It felt so awkward, so formal, talking about _examining_ his best friend. John hated it and he knew Sherlock did, too, but to his credit, he rolled over as best he could.

"You can keep your knees up, if it helps." John said and Sherlock pulled his knees in as close as they would come while still being flat on his back.

John lifted Sherlock shirt slightly and pressed gently.

"Does that hurt?"

Sherlock nodded, chewing his lip now. John moved his hand over and up.

"Here?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded again.

"And here?"

"Yes."

This wasn't helping. _Everywhere_ hurt.

"Is there one place that the pain feels different, or worse?" John asked, pulling Sherlock's shirt down.

"It's everywhere." Sherlock muttered.

"On a scale of one to ten."

"Nine."

This was serious. Sherlock had a huge pain tolerance and _never_ admitted he was actually in pain. He was a suffer-in-silence type. Okay, John, think.

What did pain mean? Abdominal pain was common with the third stage of yellow fever. There wasn't more pain over any major organs, which was good. All he could do for now was keep an eye on it and try to help Sherlock relax.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes closed, but John went to the kitchen, retrieving a new bag of saline and looking through the medication vials. There was one for pain – it wasn't morphine, Mycroft would never send morphine – but it was comparable and far less addicting. He read the medical information on the vial and noted it wasn't safe to administer with the vomiting medication he had given Sherlock in the last bag. John checked his watch. It would be another six hours before he could safely administer the drug. Taking the single bag back into the bedroom, John put on a pair of gloves before turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock had rolled back into a ball. Obviously, it was less painful for him that way.

"Sherlock, I need your arm."

Sherlock, instead of rolling over, extended his arm backwards for John. It wasn't exactly easy to replace the line that way but John managed, not having the heart to ask Sherlock to turn over again.

"Here."

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John sitting on the bed in front of him, holding the thermometer probe out. Sherlock lazily opened his mouth and closed his eyes again, leaving John to pull the probe out when the hand-held machine beeped.

Still in the 40 range.

John sighed, wondering what to do to help Sherlock. There didn't seem to be anything _useful_ he could do to break the fever or curb the pain. John was still pondering when Sherlock clenched into an even tighter ball.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John exclaimed.

Wasn't it obvious? Sherlock wondered. The pain in his abdomen had gone up a notch. He felt like he wanted to be sick but there was something holding him back, probably the strong anti-vomiting medicine John had given him.

"Sherlock?" John was still watching him, a very worried look on his face.

"Worse." Sherlock mumbled.

Worse … the pain was worse? Of course, what else would prompt such a reaction? What could he do?

Water.

The answer came quickly. In a cartoon, he would have had one of those little light bulbs flashing over his head.

Sherlock was staying hydrated through the drip but his stomach was probably completely empty, which couldn't be helping anything. John left and returned with a plastic tumbler filled with room temperature water.

"Sherlock, I need you to sit up a bit, if you can."

John hadn't been able to find any straws so unless he wanted to choke, Sherlock would have to sit up to drink.

"No."

"Sherlock, please. I think this might help with the pain."

Possible relief seemed to appeal to Sherlock and he slowly undid himself and sat up. He took the cup from John and drank a few gulps, remembering how thirsty he was before he fell asleep again. He kept swallowing down the liquid, knowing he wouldn't vomit it back up thanks to the medication. However, he went a bit too fast and choked. Thrusting the cup into John's hands, Sherlock coughed, trying to clear his airway.

Utter and sheer pain.

The coughing felt like something was being torn from his body and when he had cleared his throat enough, Sherlock fell back against the pillow and curled up, rocking slightly, and moaning.

"Sherlock, what can I do?" John asked, clearly frightened by the experience. "Just try to relax, I - "

John stopped. He … what? There was _nothing_ he could do. It was the worst feeling in the world.

Sherlock had grasped at the other pillow and was burying his face in it, trying to control himself but the pain was so intense. Sherlock felt tears in his eyes.

Tears, what useless things they were. He blinked but they refused to dissipate. Sherlock unburied his face.

"John," he whimpered. "John, help me. I'm scared."

"I won't leave you, I promise." John answered, trying to come up with _something_ that would help his friend. His mind was racing – Sherlock was in _serious_ pain, what to do, what to do? He was going through the things he had been taught in medical school, in basic training, in army medicine, _anything_. The problem was, John quickly realized, that the treatment for abdominal pain in any of those situations involved medicine that he couldn't give Sherlock. He even debated giving Sherlock a nicotine patch but he knew that wasn't a good idea as much as it would help relax him. John had to rely on his experience at this point – things his mother did to him or Harry, things he had seen in practice that he knew worked.

Okay, when he was young and had a stomach ache, what did his mother do? Tea. She made him tea and wrapped him up in a blanket on the couch. Given the experience Sherlock had with the water, John wanted to avoid tea if possible. But it wasn't the tea exactly that had helped … it was the heat, John realized. Of course, how could he not have realized this? There were always hot packs at the hospital to help with muscle pain.

Stupid. How could he forget such a simple remedy? Was he turning into one of those twenty-first century doctors who relied on drugs more than care?

It didn't matter. John could figure out the methods in his practice later, when Sherlock wasn't his patient.

John didn't really want to put Sherlock in the bath right now, not with such a high fever, but he could make some hot packs to apply to Sherlock's stomach and back.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked when he heard John's feet crossing the floor. "You promised you wouldn't leave…"

John could tell by the way Sherlock was talking that he was delirious.

"I'll be right back." John said, trying to sound as genuine as possible. John rooted through the kitchen cabinets, looking for something he could make into hot pack. The best he could come up with was turning on the oven to its lowest temperature and once it was warm, hanging a towel in front of it. When the towel was nice and warm, John folded it and went back to Sherlock.

"Here," John said, going around to the other side of the bed so he could see Sherlock's face. Sherlock cracked his eyes open.

"What is it?" he muttered.

"Put it against your stomach, it'll dull the pain."

Sherlock didn't protest and accepted the towel, curling around it. John saw Sherlock relax slightly as the warmth penetrated his body.

"I'll be back with a new one in a few minutes," John said. It was going to be exhausting, replacing towels every few minutes, not to mention the expense of keeping the oven on for so long, but he didn't care. He had a hunch that Sherlock would fall asleep once the pain subsided.

He was right. John exchanged towels exactly nine times before coming into the bedroom with the tenth warmed towel (although he was only switching out two towels so as not to have a huge pile of laundry to do) to find Sherlock sleeping soundly.

John sat on the edge of the bed, relief sweeping over him. He held the warm towel in his hands, although he was sweating from working in the hot kitchen, and watched Sherlock's breathing. He sincerely hoped that when Sherlock woke up next, _something_ would be better- there were a range of things that could stand improvement but John wasn't picky. Any of the symptoms – the vomiting, bleeding, pain, fever – could feel free to lessen.

**Well, there's some good Sherlock whump for you all. I thought I'd better clarify here … this love of torture is only in fanfiction. Please don't think that I enjoy watching people hurting … I don't (and I'm pretty sure the reviewers don't either but you need to talk to them to be sure!). **

**Anyways, reviews are always welcome =) **


	11. A Perfect Match

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everyone! Happy belated Christmas =) I must say … I owe quite a big apology for taking so long to post another chapter but in all honesty, my inspiration for this story just died. I've been trying to get it back so I can at least finish with a few decent chapters and I think I managed to get enough to do two more chapters after this … we'll have to see, though. As always, thank you so much for your support via reads/reviews/faves/follows. Enjoy! **

John quietly left Sherlock's room and, deciding he was too tired for the sofa, ventured upstairs and fell into his bed. He was exhausted and fell asleep instantly, although his sleep was far from restful. He kept waking up to listen for Sherlock and those too few times of sleep were filled with dreams. He dreamt about what life had been like if he hadn't met Sherlock …

… What if that walk in the park wasn't interrupted by Mike Stamford? Would he have just returned home, sitting down to stare at a blank blog page for awhile longer? Perhaps, but John's dream took him forward a few months. He was living on Queen Anne Street, married to Sarah. How he had met Sarah, he didn't know, but they had opened a small practice in Kensington. Everyday John passed by Baker Street on his way to work without batting an eye. The name Sherlock Holmes meant nothing to him and he never came across it in the papers. A few more years forward and John saw himself coming home to his wife, two kids, and a dog. It was a quaint life, one John felt happy imagining.

It wasn't until he found himself back at Sherlock's side, holding a basin as Sherlock vomited, that he understood his choice when he answered Sherlock's text that fateful day.

_Baker Street. Come if convenient. SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyways. SH_

_Could be dangerous. SH_

John realized that it took twelve simple words for him to throw away such a quiet and pleasant life like he had been dreaming about. Was he sorry?

Not in the least.

John knew he had made the right choice. It didn't take Sherlock needing him due to yellow fever to tell him that. They were a perfect match, John and Sherlock, and nothing would ever get in the way of that.

Now, that didn't mean that John didn't want the nice little house, a wife, the kids, even a dog sounded nice, but there would have to be room for Sherlock. As much as he hated the man at times, he couldn't imagine a life without him.

* * *

"Finished?" John asked, the basin hovering under Sherlock's chin.

"Yes." Sherlock fell back onto his pillow, running his hands over his face. He was miserable, utterly miserable. Never again would he complain when Mycroft reminded him it was time to update his vaccinations, although he had never bothered with such things before this. John was fiddling with the IV line, putting a different form of medicine into it or something – Sherlock wasn't sure. The only thing he really knew is that nothing seemed to be helping.

"There," John said, peeling off a pair of gloves. "That should help with the pain, plus I put a sedative in so you'll be able to get some sleep."

John reached over and laid a hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock was too tired to swat it away, even though he hated when John did that.

"I hope," John said, fitting a cover onto the thermometer probe. "That after a good night's sleep, you'll start to feel better."

Sherlock didn't see the point in taking his temperature – John had just tested it, hadn't he? – but he obediently opened his mouth. The probe was quick, at least, a number flashing onto the screen within thirty seconds.

"It's a bit better," John said encouragingly. "39.5 now."

That didn't sound better to Sherlock, not to mention that he didn't _feel_ better, but if John said it was an improvement, he believed him.

"How long does this last?" he asked. Yellow fever couldn't last forever but John crossed his arms and sighed … not a good sign.

"You're in the third stage right now. It's called the toxic stage, really, because the most people, if they're going to die from yellow fever, die during this stage."

"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear, _Doctor_."

"Right, sorry," John apologized. "If it helps, you won't die from yellow fever."

"It doesn't."

"In that case, your symptoms could start clearing as early as tomorrow or last as long as another week."

Sherlock groaned. He couldn't take another week of this.

"What's your opinion?"

John always hated that question. He wasn't supposed to give opinions. He had medical facts and data, but how could he know what someone else's body would do? But it was Sherlock and he felt compelled to answer.

"Your fever is down a bit, which is good. It'd be better if it would break but it'll get there, with time. You don't have any complications as far as I can tell – no organs shutting down or anything of the sort. The bleeding is common, but it also seems to be wearing off."

It was true – Sherlock's nose hadn't bled the last time he threw up.

"The nausea and vomiting are normal symptoms, which is good except that they make you feel so ill."

He was rambling, he knew he was.

"And given that your remission phase was so short, I'd say that it'll be two or three days before you really start feeling better. Maybe a little sooner because we started you on a constant drip as soon as we realized what you had."

Sherlock, despite the fact that his prognosis was rather positive, pulled the other pillow from his bed and pressed it to his face.

"Please, John." he said taking the pillow away from his face. "Shoot me. Please."

John smiled sympathetically.

"It'll get better soon, I promise."

There was that word again. When was he going to learn not to promise things he couldn't control?

"How's the pain in your stomach now?"

"A bit better," Sherlock answered. It was an honest answer … the pain was better than it had been, although it was undoubtedly still there.

"Good. Do you want anything – maybe some crackers and juice?"

Sherlock bit his lip. He knew he had to eat something and if he was going to sleep like John said he would, it would probably help his body to have some nutrients.

"I'll try," he agreed.

"Good." John was genuinely pleased and left the room. Sherlock didn't push himself up until John returned – why force himself to sit longer than needed? – and took the glass of juice from John's hand. He took a delicate sip, feeling the orange juice sting his raw throat.

"You don't need to eat a three course meal," John said, handing him the package of crackers. "Just as much as you can manage."

Sherlock nodded, taking a bite of cracker. It was a bit harder to get down than the juice but he kept going, knowing it would help in the long run. He did as John said, eating as much as he could manage, which was about four crackers and about half the juice.

"That's good," John said encouragingly, taking the cup back from Sherlock. "Do you want anything else?"

"No." Sherlock was trying to get comfortable without tangling the IV line – he _hated_ being tied to something, literally. He finally curled up, his head on one pillow, the other between his knees. It didn't look comfortable to John, but Sherlock found it surprisingly cozy, especially once John pulled the duvet up around him.

"Call or text me if you need anything," John said, leaving the room, although Sherlock was already on the outer edges of medically-aided sleep.

**Sorry this is so short … like I said, the muses have been dying as of late. Interesting tidbit of information … some of the information from John's dream is based on Dr. Watson's life from the books - mainly living on Queen Anne Street and having a Kensington practice. Just thought I'd incorporate that in =)**

**Reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you! **


	12. Progress

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, fellow Sherlockians! Happy New Year to you all =) I hope you all had a safe and enjoyable new year's. I have for you the next chapter of the story … it's taken me awhile but I finally got the urge to write it (yay!). There will be one more after this. I would also just like to thank you all again for your wonderful support of the story. Your encouragement means the world to me. Enjoy! **

Sherlock slept for almost twelve hours, much to John's relief. Not only was it good for Sherlock but it meant John was able to catch up on some much-needed sleep. The doctor happened to be in Sherlock's room when the detective woke, changing the bag of IV fluids. John was just connecting Sherlock's line to the new bag when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered open.

The first thing that Sherlock saw was John standing by his bed, facing the wall and carefully doing something with gloves on. There was sunlight streaming through the window, which meant it was afternoon. How had it gotten to be afternoon?

"John?" he whispered, his voice scratchy and throat sore from disuse.

John looked down quickly as a smile formed on his lips.

"Good morning," he greeted Sherlock. "How do you feel?"

What a dull question. It seemed that was all John ever asked him anymore. Wasn't his brain worthy of more taxing questions?

"Better," Sherlock said. "A bit."

Because John was a doctor and liked specifics, Sherlock continued.

"The headache is mostly gone, as is the abdominal pain. I think it is safe to say that my fever is on the verge of breaking, which you should find a relief, and while I'm not hungry, I don't feel queasy anymore either."

John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, slightly amused.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "You asked how I was feeling."

"I know you're starting to feel better when you answer me like that. However, I was going to ask why you think your fever is about to break."

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, stretching his legs and cracking his toes. "I'm clearly on the mend and it has to break sometime. Fevers normally break at this point in recovery, don't they?"

Sherlock was right, of course, and John had to agree. Still, it didn't stop him from taking the thermometer from the night stand and inserting it in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked impatient but John was insistent and when he removed the probe, the display indicated the temperature was a few tenths of a degree lower than it had been, which was still rather high.

"Will I know when it breaks?" Sherlock asked. He found the study of his body's temperature and reaction to illness a bit fascinating, especially now that he felt better.

"Oh yeah," John answered. "You'll start sweating profusely and you'll feel very warm."

"As opposed to how cold I feel now? What causes that?"

"When you get sick, your body temperature resets itself to a higher standard temperature to ward off the infection. However, because your body isn't used to the higher standard, the difference between that and your actual temperature makes you feel cold sometimes even though your skin feels warm."

"Interesting."

"Mhmm." John said, a bit amused at Sherlock's level of interest. "Do you think you can drink something?"

Sherlock swallowed experimentally and decided he could and nodded. John left and returned with a glass of juice, which Sherlock drank. He hated to admit it, but he was already feeling tired again. John sensed his exhaustion, as well as saw it, in Sherlock's eyes.

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" John said, taking the cup from him. Sherlock hated the prospect of wasting more time on sleep – his mind was finally clear enough to think about more important things than his transport's necessary, but dull, needs – but he knew John was right. Even if he wanted to work on the methodology for an experiment, he would fall asleep sooner than later anyways.

John switched off the lamp and left the room, leaving Sherlock in the semi-dark. He shivered slightly, mentally telling his body to break the fever, and pulled his blankets even closer. It took him less than five minutes to be asleep again.

* * *

John must've put another sedative in the IV, Sherlock realized, when he woke up to sunshine again. Only this time the light wasn't shining directly into the window which meant it was morning again. Sherlock immediately noticed that he, as well as his clothing and bed linens, were _drenched_ in sweat. It was, honestly, the most disgusting feeling Sherlock had ever experienced. He sat up, trying to peel his damp clothes away from his skin.

"John?" Sherlock called, knowing his faithful doctor would be there in a heartbeat. Sure enough, John opened the door a moment later. It took John all of three seconds to realize that the fever broke. Sherlock's curls hung in wet ringlets and he had beads of sweat on his face.

"Your fever broke." John said, gravitating towards the thermometer.

"Very good deduction, John." Sherlock's voice was laced with sarcasm although he opened his mouth obediently.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded when the machine was done its reading.

"You're at about 38 degrees," John said, releasing the protective cover into the waste bin. "Not quite normal but much, much better."

"Good," Sherlock said, swinging his feet out from under the covers. "Now, if you don't mind unhooking me, I'm going to bathe."

John obliged, removing the IV needle from Sherlock's hand.

"I may put it in again later, depending how you're progressing," John warned as Sherlock marched off to the bathroom. Sherlock didn't answer, his mind made up. He was done with the drip.

"Not too hot," John called after him. He couldn't really blame Sherlock for wanting to shower. He had woken up in similar situations before and it really was a horrid feeling, being covered in your own sweat. John heard the shower turn on and he stripped the sheets, noting they were also damp with sweat, and took them down to the laundry. He returned, making up the bed fresh again, before going into the kitchen and putting on the kettle and a pot of soup.

By the time Sherlock finished his shower and found fresh pyjama trousers, the soup was done and John had a steaming bowl sitting at the kitchen table, along with a cup of tea. Sherlock came padding in and sat down without a complaint.

"I see you're hungry now, too," John observed as Sherlock ate.

"Obviously."

Again, John, why the need to state obvious facts? I wouldn't be eating if I wasn't hungry. Sherlock finished the soup and carried his tea cup into the sitting room, leaving John to wash up his dishes. He settled himself onto the sofa, sipping his tea. John followed shortly after and sat across from him.

"Well, now what?" Sherlock asked, looking for a paper or his (or John's) computer. "Have there been any new cases?"

"Whoa, Sherlock." John said, putting a hand up. "You may be feeling better but you are far from being _completely_ better. You've got a bit of a recovery yet."

"Recovery … how boring."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. I don't want you to have a relapse so just take it easy."

Sherlock nodded, simply to please John. He wasn't going to have a relapse. He felt fine, more than fine after his shower.

John, on the other hand, knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking and knew that he would have to be extra careful in the next few days … he already had Sherlock's computer upstairs and he'd have to reset his password, he decided.

**Reviews are always appreciated! **


	13. Update

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello everyone! First off, thank you so much for all the reads/reviews/faves/follows! I always say it but I always mean it – your encouragement literally brings a smile to my face. And after almost two months of working this story between the holidays and school, I have finally found a good ending – and believe me, I've written this chapter a few different times so I'm glad to finally have found one I like. I hope you enjoy it! **

It took Sherlock a few days – not to mention a few trips to the loo with his hand over his mouth – to be back to normal. Once he had passed the vomiting stage and regained an appetite (or as much of an appetite Sherlock Holmes ever had), he constantly annoyed John about going out. John's answer was always the same.

"You're not well until your temperature has been normal for twenty-four hours."

"It's a mild fever. It's nothing to worry about." Sherlock said four days later, flopping onto their sofa. He was a bit angry because John had locked his pistol in his strongbox.

"Until it becomes more than mild." John said, beginning to lose his patience. He had lost count of the number of times he and Sherlock had had this conversation.

"Check it again."

"No."

"Please?"

"Sherlock, you checked it half an hour ago."

"Would you believe me if I told you my standard body temperature is slightly elevated?"

"No."

"Drat."

Sherlock starred idly at the ceiling … the same, old boring ceiling. How dull.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John sighed his response and he didn't look up from his magazine.

"I'm bored."

"Work on an experiment, then."

"I don't have what I need to do my next experiment. Will you go shopping for me?"

"No. Read a book."

"I don't want to read a book." Sherlock's voice was bordering a whine.

"Can I ask Lestrade to send cold case files?"

John put down his reading material.

"Do you promise to stay in the flat?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I promise." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Promise what?"

"I promise to stay in the flat." Sherlock said this with a look that was a cross between a glare and a child making a face behind the teacher's back.

"Fine." John picked up his magazine again as Sherlock dialled Lestrade as quickly as he could. A few minutes later the doorbell rang and Sherlock ran down like a child on Christmas morning eager to open his presents. The moment he returned, he sat at the kitchen table, reading a complete file, making a few notes, and then moving to the next one. At least, John though, he was quiet.

* * *

It took another day and a half before John let Sherlock out of the flat and when he did, he watched from the window as Sherlock drew in a breath of fresh air – his first in almost two weeks – and hailed a cab.

He sat down to update his blog to let the world know Sherlock was okay once again and was almost done when he heard the front door bang closed. He glanced at the clock – Sherlock had only been gone for forty minutes.

"You're back early," he greeted Sherlock, noting Sherlock was holding a small cooler and a file folder. "Where were you?"

"Had to see Mycroft." Sherlock answered, un-looping his scarf.

"Are you sure your fever's not back?" John asked dryly. Sherlock _hated_ seeing Mycroft and normally sent John in his stead.

"Quite." Sherlock dropped the file folder on John's keyboard.

"What's this?" John asked, picking up the file as Sherlock went into the kitchen and cleared a space on the counter.

"Medical file." Sherlock answered, laying a clean tea towel on the counter before opening the cooler. "Mine."

"I can see that," John murmured, eyes scanning the front page. He looked up to Sherlock.

"Why do I have your medical file?"

"Because," Sherlock said, taking out vials and needles and laying them carefully on the towel. "You are going to update my vaccinations."

"What?" John, by this point, had stood and was walking towards the counter.

"Page ten."

John flipped to page ten – a bit surprised there were nine pages of documented medical events – and saw Sherlock's immunization record which was mostly blank past the age of twelve, he noticed.

"Sherlock, I can't - "

"Yes, you can." Sherlock interrupted, unbuttoning his sleeve. "I spoke with Mycroft and his personal physician," Sherlock rolled his eyes at the idea of Mycroft having his own doctor. "And they verified these are the vaccines I'm missing. You're a doctor, you can administer them."

"But - "

"Oh, come on John, it's not that hard. I'd do it myself but they need a physician's signature on the form."

"So why not just go to the surgery?"

"_Me_, go to the _surgery_? What an idiotic idea."

John rolled his eyes.

"After what I've been though with the yellow fever, I am not making that mistake again. Will you do it?"

John felt the corners of his lips turn up.

"Did you just say you made a mistake?"

"You know what I mean." Sherlock said impatiently. "Will you?"

John sighed. As much as he would rather Sherlock go to the surgery and have the shots administered in a sterile environment, he reasoned that having them at all was better than nothing.

"Let me find some gloves and alcohol swabs."

Sherlock reached into the cooler and pulled out both. John pulled on the gloves and started reading bottles, making sure it was safe to give them all at once and following their instructions before administering them. Seven shots later, Sherlock was rolling down his sleeve and John was filling in the vaccination charts before he gathered the needles and such and returned them to the cooler. Sherlock took the cooler to return to Mycroft – that had been part of the deal if John administered the shots. The needles, completed and signed chart, and empty vaccination vials all had to be returned and accounted for or else Mycroft would call Detective Inspector Lestrade to do a drugs bust at 221B.

John waited till Sherlock was gone before sitting down to finish his blog entry.

_With Sherlock now up to date on his shots, I'm curious to see how sore his arm will be tomorrow … should be interesting, to say the least._

**Well, that is the end of **_**Contagion**_**. I would like to thank you all once again for your lovely words of encouragement. A special thanks to **_**Prothoe**_** for the prompt – it was a good one! I hope you enjoyed reading the story … and I'll have to be careful what I say because another term starts on Monday, but I hope to have some new material up soon. I have the ideas, now I just need the time and maybe a bit more inspiration. But I'll get there. **

**Thank you again and happy reading and writing!**

**StoryLover18 **


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